sabato 29 settembre 2007

...I haven't posted since July

I actually don't think I'm much of a blogger...Pen and paper are more my thing.

mercoledì 11 luglio 2007

Why I cant seem to get to sleep

i really wish i knew....

venerdì 5 gennaio 2007

Why I wish my first name were Robert and my surname Frost...

Birches by Robert Frost

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
(Now am I free to be poetical?)
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

venerdì 29 dicembre 2006

Why I now drive Don Quixote

“In a place in Piemonte, whose name I do not want to recall, not so long ago there dwelt a car of the type wont to keep a tough steering wheel, a bunch of magazines in the trunk, an old umbrella and an outdated phone token”*

When C told me that she had named her car Moby Dick (see comment under Why I need a name for my mum’s car) it it hit me that my car should be named Don Quixote, Errant Car! The reasons are simple:

Firstly, the car is a Fiat Uno that firmly believes itself to be a Ferrari TestaRossa...

Secondly, the dictionary definition of errant is :
1. straying from the proper course or standard, or outside of established limits – Sounds like my car

2. prone to making errors – Yes my car is... as am I really

3, travelling in search of adventure- I’m pretty sure that when i park it and leave it for a while it goes off on its own

Thirdly, it has the tendency to “fight windmills”...i.e freak out and battle things that simply are not there (yes! IT..the car does... not me the driver mmm...)

Fourthly, the novel had me laughing to the point of tears and at times i reach the same point whilst driving

Fifthly, my memories with the car when my mum used to drive it have a special place in my heart as does the book (cheesy)

Finally,if my car is Don Quixote that makes me Sancho Panza---what more could a girl want?!?!

mercoledì 27 dicembre 2006

Why I need a name for my mum's car.

So, a couple of weeks ago, at age 25 (yes i know that’s a quarter of century...grr) I finally got my driving license. The first thing I did was go to my grandmother’s house and get my mum’s car...which may very well become mine if my stay here is prolonged (very likely). I started driving around and it was only when I got over the fear of destroying it, me or random pedestrians that I realised the car was in serious need of a makeover. This morning I decided to clean it and change the seat covers*. Of course, after a week of beautiful sunshine and bright blue skies, the fog descended on Asti...the sort of fog that if you look down you can barely see what shoes you’re wearing...But I couldn’t let a bit of blurry vision stop me. Armed with a vacuum cleaner I started to clean. An hour later I was still cleaning and an hour after that i was... i was still cleaning. It became an obsession; for every speck of dust i cleaned i was convinced that there were a thousand more. I stripped it of the old seat covers ( i think they’ve been around since my granddad bought the car for my mum in ’94...you do the maths) and vacuum cleaned every nook and cranny. It was after the first half of the second hour had passed that I started to talking to it. I’ve been talking to it in my head ever since I started driving it but this morning I actually spoke out loud and waited patiently for it to respond. Conclusion? The car needs a name...It needs a name because I can’t say “I was talking to my car the other day and...” without getting strange looks BUT if i name it I can say “I was talking to Bob the other day and...” No one needs to know who “Bob”** is and I can continue talking to the car without feeling silly ...Only problem now is that the car doesn’t look or behave like a Bob...suggestions are welcomed


*i think i’m going to buy material and make them myself...leopard skin all the way (ewww...)
** sorry S, it was the first name that popped into my head!

martedì 26 dicembre 2006

Why I make mountains out of mole hills and then climb them

“Did you notice the way he scratched his left eyebrow when he said jumping cow? ...that HAD to mean something!”
In my own little world everything and anything MEANS something...that something then gets flipped around and analysed from every angle until...well until nothing really. See, I’m aware of it but I can’t seem to get a hold of myself. It’s an innate part of my tortuous personality. I recently discovered* that i’ve always been a female, taller and less chubby version of Hercule Poirot. What really makes me different to Hercule (aside from having a much less waxed mustache**) is that I don’t resolve mysteries...I create them. If my head is not buzzing about something or the other I’m unhappy. The most banal word, sentence, body movement, sneeze –you name it- sets of an insane chain reaction. Firstly I see or hear it, then I try and connect it with the setting, then i think about it (this thought can last a minute just as it can last a year or more***) once i’ve thought about it i start consulting Captain Hastings (namely: mother, sister Y and S). I drive them all mad and force them to help me build my mountains with the little mole hill earth and worms I have. They eventually get bored and stand at the foot of the mountain watching me as I begin my solitary climb. From time to time i shout down at them with details of my findings (or non-findings). Sometimes I actually make it to the top of my mountain but have little time to revel in my achievement because I become instantly aware of yet another banal word, sentence, body movement, sneeze-you name it- and I’m off again...
This overanalysing is quite terrible and leads to an unhealthy stomach but, unfortunately for my little grey cells, I find it to be quite fun and I honestly don’t know how to stop doing it!

*through a series of emails exchanged with a friend who i used to go to school in england with ages 11-16
** i don’t actually have a mustache...i’m quite insecure and feel the need to highlight this point
*** i’m still analysing a head tilt that happened nearly two years ago...(i’m serious and probably also a bit sick)

domenica 24 dicembre 2006

Why I worry on chritmas eve

After two weeks of wrapping gifts for others i now wait for mine. I’m a bit worried though because i don’t know how Babbo Natale (Father Christmas) is going to enter the house...my aunt’s house has no chimney and it’s really too cold outside to leave the doors or windows open...I think that’s why I’m awake...I’ll wait until I hear reindeer hoofbeats and the tinkling of bells and THEN i’ll creep up to the door and open it for him to enter. I’d feel bad otherwise.
It’s going to snow tonight...it’s christmas eve and when the midnight mass is over people will gather in the squares outside cathedrals and churches, underneath the falling snow. It has to snow because otherwise the reindeers won’t be able to land on the rooftops. I read somewhere (in a story i made up) that christmas reindeers have truly sensitive hoofs and that if the surface on which they walk –and land- is not soft and cold they get struck by some terrible disease which turns their hoofs into human feet! So it absolutely has to snow and snow and snow and tomorrow there will be meters of the stuff covering everything and everyone... but there is no need to worry about who will shovel the snow..the elves will. Yes, because they don’t just help with wrapping gifts...elves also shovel snow. They’re very good at it too. They’re so good in fact that no one notices them. I worry about them because of this. For a while now they have been helping father christmas with the gifts and the snow but if their efforts continue to go unnoticed they may start to suffer from certain psychological disorders...(this piece of writing is partly an appeal on behalf of the elves) and if they breakdown who will help poor father christmas out? And if he has no help how will he be able to wrap all those gifts? This indeed is a dilemma...on the “the world will never be the same” scale it’s a definite 9.5 (10 being if Ferrero stops producing Nutella) So what is to be done? Well, for every overly complicated problem there is an overly simple answer: give the elves some lovin’---And i end this on that note because my gifts are on their way and i still need to put some biscuits on a plate and pour a glass of milk for father christmas...oh great! that’s another thing to worry about...if the rumours about his diabetes are true biscuits may not be the wisest way to go...